Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Hannah had trained as a music teacher. “But then, Jeb came along,” she said with a sigh. “If he were living now, he’d be so proud to have me written up in the ‘Qwill Pen’ column!”

After breakfast, fortified by three cups of coffee, Qwilleran went upstairs and gave the Siamese a morsel of ham he had sneaked out of the dining room. Then he wrote a thousand words about the doll house miniatures that he could not honestly appreciate, although he admired the skill, patience, and creativity that went into them. He also phoned Junior Goodwinter, to save a three-column horizontal hole for a photo on page two. It was an old-fashioned bedroom with fireplace, four-poster bed, and rugs braided of knitting yarn. The wash stand was equipped with one-inch towels and a tiny bowl-and-pitcher set and even tinier soap dish. The cake of soap was an aspirin tablet.

While waiting for Nick’s phone call, Qwilleran played the video of Pirates that Hannah had lent him—to refresh his memory about plot, characters and dialogue. The Siamese went to the turret to watch squirrels; there were no birds or animals on the TV screen.

Qwilleran turned it off and hurried downstairs to hear the latest.

“Well, the sheriff’s office wanted me to rush to the morgue and identify the body. I also took the guest register, but who knows if the information is true. I remembered that Hackett had worn a big digital wristwatch; that’s all I could contribute. I know the fellows in the sheriff’s department very well and wanted to ask a few questions, but the state detectives were there. You press guys are the only ones that can ask questions and get away with it.”

“That doesn’t say we get answers.”

“Maybe the paper will have an update. It’s delivered here at two-thirty. I suppose you noticed the police cars coming and going to the cabin, Qwill. They’ve got it taped off.”

“Probably brushing for fingerprints. They’ll pick up some of Koko’s nose prints.”

Nick asked, “How are the cats?”

“Calmed down since yesterday—until Nicodemus paid a social call this morning.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll stay in our cottage until you move to the cabin.”

Qwilleran had some time to kill before dining with Barb Ogilvie, and he walked aimlessly about the grounds.

Once he stopped to watch a squirrel frantically digging a hole. It was so deep that his foreleg disappeared in the excavation as each teaspoonful of soil was brought to the surface. Then he buried some small treasure, scooping the earth back into the hole, tamping it with a paw, and camouflaging the site with fallen leaves.

Qwilleran’s built-in “Qwill Pen” alarm system signaled a topic for Friday’s column: Squirrels! Everyone loves them or hates them!

It would be possible to do man-on-the-street interviews without even leaving the inn! It was the kind of column that would virtually write itself! The reader response would pour into the newspaper office, making Arch Riker happy!

Perfect!

Meanwhile there was action in the lobby of the inn. The personable young MCCC student who was Lori’s part-time apprentice was arranging an exhibit in the glass display case that kept guests entertained while waiting for tables in the dining room.

The previous exhibit had been a collection of photos showing the Limburger mansion, inside and out, before it was renovated by the Klingenschoen Fund. Outside, there were broken bricks, boarded up windows, overgrown weeds—and squirrels. Inside, there were dark walls, ponderous items of furniture shipped from Germany, a cuckoo clock, and cartons of rubbish. The photos were augmented by a few items of German porcelain and woodcarving, salvaged from the clutter when everything else was unloaded.

Now the enthusiastic apprentice, whose name was Cathy, was arranging a collection of vintage nutcrackers. A computer-printed sign said BLACK WALNUTS ARE A HARD NUT TO CRACK.

“Nice job, Cathy,” said Qwilleran. “If you don’t make it as president of an international hotel chain, you can always get a job as a window-trimmer.”

“You say such nice things, Mr. Q!”

“Where did you get the artifacts?”

“Dr. Abernethy is lending them.”

“Can the case be locked?” Qwilleran was thinking of the cuckoo clock that had been spirited out of the building before the renovation, although it had been promised to Aubrey Scotten. He was a young man who gave much and asked for little. He should have received the clock promised him.

When the bundle of Monday papers arrived in the lobby, everyone grabbed. There on the front page was the black walnut staircase, with a squirrel peering in the window. She probably had a nest between the turret and the mansard roof. It was photographer’s luck that she happened to be there at the right moment.

In the News Bite column, the unidentified body found in Black Creek was still unidentified, although the victim was not a local resident, it had been determined. In other words, he was an outsider, using an alias.